The Winston Affair (21 page)

“Could you tell the court the meaning of schizophrenic-paranoia?”

Colonel Burton sat stolidly silent, but one arm was trembling now, from shoulder to hand.

“Colonel Burton,” Adams said deliberately, “where were you employed before you enlisted in the army?” And when Burton did not answer, Adams continued, “Was it in the Diamond-Square Truck Works in Detroit?”

“Yes.”

“Were you employed as company physician?”

“Yes.”

“And were you discharged because you diagnosed a heart attack as acute indigestion?”

“I was not discharged,” Burton said, his voice a whimper now. “I resigned.”

“I have no further questions,” Adams told the court—without any note of triumph or joy.

Monday 4.40 P.M .

Colonel Burton was the last witness for the prosecution. After he had left the witness chair, Major Smith announced that he was resting his case.

“If the court pleases,” he said, “and with the reservation that if the defense chooses to make a dosing statement I may reply to it, the United States Army is prepared to rest on the evidence that has been taken. In the light of this evidence, I feel that the Trial Advocate has proven that the murder of the decedent, Sergeant Arnold Quuin, was willfully and with forethought committed by the defendant, Lieutenant Charles Winston—while he, the defendant, was of sound mind and in full possession of all his faculties.”

Colonel Thompson rapped with his gavel and said, “So be it! This court is adjourned until nine-thirty tomorrow morning, at which time those having business before it will appear here again!”

Moscow gathered his papers together, rising with Adams as the court rose. “Do you want to talk with Winston now?” Moscow asked.

“I don't want to talk to anyone now.”

“You know that Harvey and I are having dinner with you, sir. I hope you feel better then.”

“At the Palace?”

“Yes.”

“I know you're in no mood to hear anything of the sort now, sir—but you're a damn good lawyer. I have to say that to you. I just wish Harvey could have seen it.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

Outside, in the main entranceway, Major Kensington was waiting for Adams. “I'm really sorry, old chap,” he said. “I had put myself up to it and stiffened my back while I was waiting around today. Now I'm ordered to return to my station immediately and prohibited from testifying.”

“Yes,” Adams said, and nodded.

“You don't seem surprised?”

“No, I'm not surprised, Major, not at all.”

“I suppose you could get some kind of legal paper or something or a subpoena—you know what I mean—and force it? I'd just as soon you did.”

“No, I can't. We're two separate armies.”

“You mean because in this hole we're top dog?”

“That's what I mean.”

“Well—it has been a pleasure to know you. I do hope you're not hurt too badly, Adams.”

“Thank you, Major. I'll get along.” Adams smiled.

Monday 7.20 P.M .

Lieutenant Harvey Bender was understandably in excellent spirits. He had produced a handwriting expert in the last place in the world where you would expect to find one. He had carried out his orders, and since he was very young, he had begun to build Barney Adams into a hero of sorts. He told Adams and Moscow how he had gone into the university and then to the police, and finally to the newspaper—from whence they sent him back to the university with a letter of introduction to Professor Nahrawal Chatterjee. Professor Chatterjee, a small, withered and unassuming man, as Bender described him, was a Doctor of Philology, educated at Oxford, who had written a manual of comparative chirography—stressing the differences between the Eastern and Western script development.

“Now, by God,” he said, “I deserve a small good conduct badge for that, don't I, Captain?”

“I suppose you do. Will he testify?”

“He will. No money either. He's a peculiar little duck. And by the way,” he added, “Lieutenant Sorenson gave me this letter for you.” He handed an envelope to Adams, who glanced at it and then put it in his pocket.

Whatever it was, Adams did not want to read it in front of them. He wanted only to finish with this dinner and meeting and then go to sleep.

“I also heard about Burton.” Bender nodded eagerly. “I wish I could have seen the job you did on him, Captain.”

Moscow fixed him with a cold stare, and Bender became quiet without knowing what he had done.

“Suppose we finish eating and get down to work,” Adams said. “If I don't act more joyous, it has nothing to do with you, Lieutenant Bender.”

“I mean, if I said something wrong—”

“Oh, go ahead and eat,” Moscow told him.

Hurt and bewildered, Bender returned to his food and began to eat silently and efficiently.

Monday 9.40 P.M .

Alone in his room now, Barney Adams opened the letter from Kate Sorenson. “Dear Barney,” it began.

I am writing what I would be unable to say to you directly. That is because I have never been too good with words. To begin with, I was notified of my transfer today. I put in for one five months ago. I suppose they decided to process it very quickly, because I'm booked on Air Transport to Egypt tomorrow on the two o'clock flight. From Cairo, I go on to England, where I'll join a base hospital.

This above does not change what decision I had come to. It only makes it easier for me. I hope it will also make it easier for you.

If I was only a little younger and a little different, the night we spent together would be something I would want to treasure all my life. The way it is, I don't know. Any more than I really know why you are doing what you are doing.

I wish that I could separate myself and yourself from the Winston case, but I can't. Even if you believe in the kind of love you said you feel for me, you can't separate such a thing happening from the circumstances in which it happens. Can you? I would like to believe that love can happen the way you said it did happen. I don't believe it. Love must be a continuation of yourself—but such continuation cannot happen in terms of both of us together. The continuation would be too different, because whether you believe in such things or not, we do come from two separate worlds—each of them far apart from the other.

Maybe that's why I wouldn't let myself fall in love with you, as much as I might want to. And love is something you can control, I think. You must want to let it happen to you.

I read a book once where this happened to a man and a woman in wartime. The author made you believe it while you were reading, and then he didn't have any problems to solve because one of them died. Life is something else, isn't it?

We would have to understand each other and plan to live with each other in real life, wouldn't we, Barney? But I don't think you would ever really understand me, and I know that I would never understand you. You are too many separate things. You have the beautiful little boy face that I had come to detest as a symbol of men who neither labored nor suffered but lived their lives on the gift of that face. You come from a wealthy background, where you knew only peace and love. You never had to think about where the next meal was coming from. I don't say all that is bad, but it is different. Too much different ever to straighten out to a point of understanding.

You are like a child. But you are also a man, and the man frightens me. You have innocence but you also have a terrible and terrifying sophistication. You control so well that everything important remains bottled up inside of you.

But above all, I kept asking myself—why, why are you doing this thing with the defense of Winston? Why is the life of this sick and evil man so important to you? I asked Max Kaufman to explain it to me, and he tried. But it was no good. My own case is nothing. If they're moving me, I am glad to be moved, and I haven't changed my decision to testify for you in the morning. But it won't be as easy for others as it is for me. That doesn't matter to you. It doesn't matter who will be hurt, who will be ruined, who will have his dreams smashed—so long as you win this case.

You see, as much as I try, I cannot get myself to believe that the main reason you want to win is something apart from your need to win. I wish I could believe that you were standing against the world for some high moral purpose that is central to your life, but I can't believe that.

I think I have been honest in trying to explain this thing to you, Barney. When I see you tomorrow, don't make it harder for either of us. That wouldn't help.

And it was signed, simply, “Kate Sorenson.”

Tuesday 4.16 AM

He awakened from dreaming about Gabowski again, and as he lay sweating and trembling under the mosquito netting, he said to himself: I really must talk to Kaufman about this dreaming. I can't go on waking up night after night with this dream. It's no way for a person to live.

Then he stretched out on his back and tried to compose himself to sleep, even though he knew quite well that there would be no more sleep on this night. He wanted to think about Kate Sorenson, but he couldn't. He felt no grief, no sense of rejection; insofar as he was able to comprehend his own feelings, he felt nothing at all.

He let his thoughts wander back through his life to a day when he was ten years old, and that was the day when he left for military school for the first time. At the door of their house he clung to his mother, his face pressed against her, his arms around her. He had thought to himself then: They'll have to tear me away from her. They'll have to tear my arms off.

“Barney,” his father said, very quietly.

“Let the boy have a minute more,” his mother begged.

“Barney.”

I'll never let go, never, he thought.

“Barney, the car is waiting.”

Then he let go and turned his tear-stained face to his father, who said coolly, “Be a man now, Barney. That will be expected of you now at all times. You are the son of a soldier and the grandson of a soldier, and you are now going to learn to be a soldier yourself.”